


My Boy

by flowerpotz01



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), But not too intense, Cause fuck that clown, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fluff without Plot, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, That’s a Lie, They literally just love each other, This is just self indulgent lolz, Underage Drinking, forgot to put that, thats all tehe, uhhhh, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25821718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerpotz01/pseuds/flowerpotz01
Summary: There are many things I love about Eddie.I’ve known him for the majority of my life, so of course I know all of his ticks and how to push all of his little buttons. Which colorful wires to cut to make steam roll out of his cute ass elf ears. To make the fireworks burst out of his small body of 5’6” in fluorescent sparks of colors. I love how easily he explodes when I call him Eds or my little Eddie Spaghetti. He always gets so pissy when I pinch his cheek, going cute cute cute! and how he swats my hand off to turn away and hide his smile that he thinks I can’t see. You’re not so slick, babe.I love his smile man, and I wish he didn’t hide it as often as he does. The way his dimples pop out like cute little surprises for anyone just meeting him.I love every single damn thing about him. He’s the love of my life.I love my boy.Richie loves Eddie. Eddie loves Richie. But why?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Reddie - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	My Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm Taylor and this is my first Reddie one shot that I'm publishing. This is literally just self-indulgent and I got inspired when I listened to a song by Queen called "You Take My Breath Away.” I hope you like it, feedback of any kind is welcomed. Thanks! 
> 
> [my boy playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/06Hw2PyG3BDvXRCelYfNop)
> 
> [You Take My Breath Away by Queen](https://open.spotify.com/track/0JR1UPExSwwEvTRub1SZI3)

* * *

_~ For Eddie ~_

_There are many things I love about Eddie._

I’ve known him for the majority of my life, so of course I know all of his ticks and how to push all of his little buttons. Which colorful wires to cut to make steam roll out of his cute ass elf ears. To make the fireworks burst out of his small body of 5’6” in fluorescent sparks of colors. I love how easily he explodes when I call him _Eds_ or _my little Eddie Spaghetti_. He always gets so pissy when I pinch his cheek, going _cute cute cute!_ and when he swats at my hand to turn away and hide his smile that he thinks I can’t see. You’re not so slick, babe.

I love his smile, man, and I wish he didn’t hide it as often as he does. The way his dimples pop out like cute little surprises for anyone just meeting him.

I love how determined and headstrong he gets in a tipsy debate with Stan on who won Monopoly. Which inevitably has him flipping the whole board game over -because he’s a sore loser and likes to win- and me spitting out my beer on Ben -poor guy- from cackling too hard, doubling over.

Eddie’ll yell, still sitting on my lap, face flushed red from alcohol and frustration, brown eyes large and almost rabid looking, “Shut the fuck up, Stan! This is _actual bullshit_ you don’t know what you’re talking about--”

And Stan -out of spite just to see Eddie go even more feral because I guess he thinks it’s funny, and it kind of is- will just say as calm as ever while pouring another drink, “Eddie, Mike and I won fair and square. It’s not my fault that you chose Richie to be your partner -who’s just as bad at _Monopoly_ as you are- and that you’re bad with money in both the game _and_ in real life,” Stan rolls his eyes. _“Don’t be so dramatic.”_

Everyone in the living room except for Stan gasps and gapes at him. Well _fuck_.

You see, you can’t just say shit like that to Eddie. He despises being called dramatic even though he knows damn well that he is, but it only makes him even more dramatic. But Stan literally doesn’t give a fuck, and Eddie’s logic is “I’m dramatic?? I’ll show you dramatic.” Therefore, Eddie stands up abruptly and says with a shrill, “I am _NOT_ dramatic! _THIS IS HOMOPHOBIC!!”_

“What are you even talking about- Edward, I’m _literally_ dating Mike!!”

_“Don’t call me_ fucking _Edward!!”_

It never ends well, but you know what? He’s still cute, even with that one little vein -I named it Glenn- throbbing out of his temple, which I kiss when he dramatically falls and curls back up in my lap. He’s so baby.

I love his little hidden obsession with country music that I only ever found out about when I walked in on him in his dorm room. Dancing and loudly singing -if you could even call it singing- the lyrics to “Bartender,” by the country singer Rehab like his life depended on it. With a backscratcher as his microphone and him drowning in my Bart Simpson “Get Bent” t-shirt that hits him mid-thigh. I’m so in love with him, someone hold me back.

I ended up joining him in dancing because if he likes country music, then so do I.

“Dude, how did I not know about this,” I ask him as I’m spinning him by his hand, striped tube socks twisting around his foot from the grip of the clean dorm carpet.

“What’s it to you? It’s good, Rich. You’re just uncultured, you absolute swine.”

We bubbled with giggles and wrong lyrics to the songs we didn’t know as we jumped around like children. He’s so beautiful when he’s happy. Face flushed red, eyes so bright they might as well be the sun, and his smile as beautiful as a double rainbow. I just have to kiss him, it’d be a sin if I didn’t.

Speaking of dancing, I love the way he moves when the music hits him. As it swims through his body like the 4 shots of tequila he downed, flowing through his bloodstream. When he pulls me from the bar to the crowded dance floor of sweaty bodies and worming his arm up, hooking it around my neck. His other hand goes swimming to my back pocket, molding our bodies so that we’re synchronized with the music. My arms almost always end up around the small of his back pulling him closer to me. And I know he’s tipsy when he doesn’t move away, only arches his back with a smirk of drunken mischief lazily placed across his soft lips. It’s hard not to smile in my drunken haze when you have your own personal dreamboat wanting to dance PG-13 with you in public. And I can’t help but think wildly that he’s so damn beautiful -to the point that he can’t possibly be _real,_ yet here he is dancing in my arms- as the neon beams skip across his smooth like honey features. Going from green to blue, teal to yellow and down to purple in the low light of the club that Beverly had drug us both to.

Our bodies move together like slow but strong waves in the heat of sweaty bodies around us. And when he gives me that hooded look, eyes blown dark like dreamy black holes, I know he feels the same way; like we’re the only ones dancing across constellations in the sky.

I love the way we argue, as strange as it sounds.

That stubborn look in his eyes, a hard set in his jaw that I’ve grazed my teeth over more times than I can count, neck to hairline a rosy pink from trying to get his point across. Maybe it’s a little twisted how I think he’s both adorable _and_ hot when he’s angry. It just makes me want to pick him up and kiss him all over his cute ass face. I mean, he’s so baby but he also gets so pissy and it makes me more so a simp than intimidated by him.

I’ll admit it: I liked being told what to do by him. Which is why, almost every time, I end up blurting out while he’s in the middle of his tirade -about...something, I forgot. I got distracted by how he scrunched his button nose up in the cutest way. Oh my god, I’m soft- “Babe, can I like - hold you while you tear me a new one? Like, get over here fucking _yesterday_ , your cuteness is too distracting for me to argue back.”

Eddie will stare at me for a few seconds, then he’ll scoff and roll his dark butterscotch eyes as he walks to me, a small smile painting onto his face, blushing but for a different reason. And all I can do is grin as he straddles my waist and vines his arms around my neck. _“Shut up, dummy,”_ he’ll murmur against my lips before kissing me, all sugary sweet.

I love the focused look on his face when he's studying and how all I have to do is kiss between his stitched up eyebrows to break the thread holding them together. The soft sigh leaving the back of his throat and through his soft lips that end up slipping on to my own. I love how even at 19 he still keeps that damn fanny pack wrapped around his slender waist that he claims is still in style and that _you’re so lame, Richie. You’re just jealous you can’t pull it off like me._ Which is wrong because literally _no one_ can pull them off. Sorry babe.

He’s also gotten into bucket hats recently. He’s collected so many over the past two months between him buying them himself and also from fucking Mike, who isn’t helping his lovely new obsession with them. He’s starting to get so many that I’m beginning to think it’ll be just like his fanny packs. I swear it’s like Eddie fucking lives in the goddamn 90s when last time I checked, it’s 2020. But I’d be lying if I said he’s not fucking adorable when he puts one on top of his grown out swirly brown curls - _which like to sneak out of the sides as if to say hi, I’m even more adorable under here!_ \- with that big dopey smile splayed across his baby face, scrunching up his cute, little nose. His blue jean denim one is a personal favorite of mine. It might be because he stole it from me… Yes, I have a few myself but this isn’t about me.

He recently just bought -overspent, actually- on a pair of roller skates. Stan was right when he said Eddie wasn’t good at saving money. Eddie had been wanting them for a while now, and it had been a month of him shoving his computer or phone in my face to see whatever pair of _super fergalicious_ skates he was wanting.

It had been a hard _no_ from me - _Eddie baby, you gotta stop spending money on random shit_ \- until Eddie threw out a stubborn “Richie, shut up I do what I want.”

And that’s how Eddie ends up with $100 pastel peach skates tied up tight and snug around his feet and strapped in my helmet and kneepads- which he looks _adorable_ in, by the way-, yelling at me, “Don’t you dare fucking let me go, I swear to God,” as I support him by his elbows from behind. I of course reassure him that I wouldn't dare let him go - _“uh uh, no how Eds Spagheds”_ \- even though I did just that thirty seconds later, and soon he’s rolling away; fly away curls that aren't tucked under my helmet wisping back. It’s like teaching a child how to ride a bike, and it’s almost sweet.

I’m cheering him on and he’s giggling that _he think he’s got the hang of it_ , and I’m so happy that he’s happy because look at my baby _go!_ But then he’s tumbling head first into a bush, and I can’t help but cackle even as I’m helping him up and he’s hitting me and yelling, “It’s not funny! Shut the fuck up Richard, I hate you!” He loves me though, and he ends up laughing with me saying he wants to try again.

Three days later, he’s skating towards me at full speed in the middle of the park, arms held out to me, and the most excitedly beautiful laugh is erupting from his little body. God, he’s so _happy_ , and it makes me think that maybe him buying too expensive roller skates was worth his giggles and him clutching the front of my shirt when he rolls into my arms, mine enveloping him protectively. There’s a starry spark in his eyes when he lifts his head to look at me, like I hung stars or something. He’s still so excited and his cheeks are a beautiful shade of cherry red.

At this point I’ve grabbed the sides of his head and I’m kissing his sweaty forehead, both his eyelids, down to his freckled, button nose, and to his soft lips, where giggles are still spilling out. “God, I love you!” I kiss both his flushed, chocolate sprinkled cheeks because I honestly can’t get enough of Eddie, my boyfriend, my love. “You’re doing so good, Spaghetti! You were literally flying, I could practically see your pretty angel wings!” He’s squirming in my arms now, still giggling, until one of his hands is free to cradle my cheek. Then he’s kissing me in the most sweetest way where he doesn’t even have to say _I love you_ back. His kiss says it all and that’s all I could really ask for.

I love the way he doesn’t have to say he loves me for me to know that he loves me.

I love his big Bambi eyes and the way he looks at me. How sometimes I can see him mindlessly looking at me from my peripheral vision. Or sometimes I’ll catch him staring off into the distance like he’s thinking about something. He’s always looking... always, always looking. I wonder what goes on in that pretty little head of his. It’s almost as if there should be birds flying around his head, singing, because Eddie Kaspbrak is a daydream of all daydreams.

“Eddie,” I’ll say to try and get his attention when he’s staring out his dorm window, curled up in my side. I’ll poke his waist, me laying beside him on the lumpy twin sized mattress with my head propped up in my hand, but he won’t come out of his head. “Spagheds....Spaghetti man...Eds I’m literally gonna bite your shoulder.”

“What???” That usually gets his attention and I’ll laugh as he rolls on top of me, squishing my cheeks together. “Don’t bite my shoulder! I didn’t know I was dating a fucking cannibal. I’m sorry but it’s over.”  
  
“Says the one who likes to bite,” I’ll throw back, his hands still squeezing my cheeks. I watch as he flushes red.

He releases my cheeks and drops his head to the crook of my neck. “Fuck you,” is all he’ll mumble. I only laugh and wrap my arms around him, hugging him closer.

I love it when he rolls his eyes when I use one of my Voices, or when I throw him more compliments than he can catch. The eyes that look at me as if I were the only one to matter in his life. They’re full of stars and galaxies— golden flecks swimming around in bourbon pools staring dreamily up into mine when I hold him close as if I am home for him as he is home for me.

I love how easily he blushes, a light strawberry shade creeping up his freckled cheeks and nose. I love how he doesn’t try to hide it anymore. I love how the chocolate flecks that cover his face also winde all down his body like vines running down an old building. All down his neck, spreading down his arms and back, swirling to his tummy and legs. I wish I were able to count each and every one of them, I find it unfair that I can’t— there are just so many of them. Maybe it’s best to not know, a mystery going unsolved.

Scooby would be pissed.

I love all ten fingers and all ten toes, perfectly filed and painted a different color every week. How he even lets me pick out the color sometimes, this week I picked out ocean blue. I love how his hands always find a home in my hair, blunt nails meeting my scalp and scratching and sometimes - all the time - pulling my dark locks. I love pulling his dark locks that now have lighten from the shining rays of the California sun. I love how he lets me stick my hand in his back pocket like in the beginning of the 80s movie “Sixteen Candles” and his arm winding around my waist to bring me close as we’re walking down Hollywood boulevard.

I love how he makes me feel safe when things feel like they’re crashing down around me. How he grounds me, lets me rest my head on his chest, hiccuping as salty tears soak his band T that is really my band T. Oh, I love how he wears my clothes, how he steals my hoodies and Hawaiian shirts as if I won't notice. And how when I catch him, his response is him crossing his hoodie covered arms and saying, “What’s yours is mine....and it smells like you so deal with it.”

I love how when he’s sleepy, he becomes extra cuddly and curls around me like a koala bear. Climbing into my lap, strong thighs straddling my own, slightly toned arms from boxing on the weekends with Mike and Beverly sliding around my shoulders, laying his head in the crook of my neck. His soft, brown hair tickling the skin of my cheek, how I can feel him breathing in, out, in, out. And how when he begins to wake up, he lightly kisses my neck and pulls me closer as if it were possible. His voice coming out small and a bit raspy with “Hi, Rich.”  
  
I rub his back and kiss his temple before saying, “Good morning my little gay peanut.” That usually earns me a hard pinch in the meat of my shoulder, but he’s laughing so it’s worth it.

I also love how sometimes he’ll play with my fingers absentmindedly one by one, grazing the pads of our fingertips together. Or how he’ll press our hands together to compare the sizes of them, small and soft against big and rough. Sometimes I’ll look down at him, his head on my shoulder as he does this. How small he looks but also how strong he is. Soft doesn’t always mean weak. I can’t help but smile and kiss his hair, and he’ll kiss my shoulder in return; I can feel him smile back, lips still pressed there.

I love his laugh, his smile, his cute little nose and how it scrunches up when he sees gunk underneath someone's nails or whenever I kiss it. I love every little quirk and tick and snappy comeback that comes out of him. And how he gives as good as he gets in our day to day banter, which just ends up in him tackling me to his freshly vacuumed dorm carpet. Lips crashing together all sugary sweet,

I love every single damn thing about him. He’s the love of my life.

I love _my Eddie._

I love _my Eds spagheds._

I love _my boy._

~~~  
_  
~ For Richie ~_

_There are many things I love about Richie._

Okay, but for starters, let me tell you that he’s goddamn insufferable. He’s so reckless, like hanging from trees upside down or making homemade blow torches with cans of hairspray and fucking lighters. How he always seems to be walking into walls and shit and hitting his head. And after he’ll turn and look at me with a wild grin, knocking his bony knuckles to his head like a door saying, “Still works, Spaghetti Man. We’re still in business!”

I mean, what kind of logical human being willingly doesn’t wear a fucking helmet when he goes out skateboarding? Well, _Bill_ , I guess considering they’re both idiots who aren’t the brightest but still somehow manage to pass their classes. Fucking _dumbasses_.

But I swear Richie needs to be wrapped up and wrapped again in bubble wrap, maybe then I’ll get some damn peace. He always knocks on my door with that stupid crooked smile -that admittedly makes me internally giggle like a stupid school girl, but he doesn’t need to know that- plastered on his stupid face. Stupid deep dimples indenting his stupid, porcelain skin and stupid wild, black curls that -I constantly want to worm my fingers through- curtain his forehead. To which he moves out of the way to reveal a new ugly, bloody gash above his eyebrow. “See, what had happened was-”

“Shut up, Richie. Get inside.”

And, Jesus, don’t get me started on his Voices. No matter how many times you tell him that the British guy really only sounds like him but drugged, his stubborn ass will still continue to do it to prove his point until Stan snaps and chucks a water bottle at his head. Richie only whimpers like a neglected puppy and crawls into my lap so I can hold him like the big baby he is. Nosing up into my neck, making chills prickle my skin and taking my hand to put on top of his head so I can play with his hair. It’s admittedly adorable when it’s supposed to be funny because, _fuck_ , Stan snapped again on Richie. Stan loves him, honest to God he does, but his fuse is a lot shorter than mine, which I didn’t think was possible.

But when Richie climbs into my lap, all long limbs and sharp angles, wanting me to hold him close even in the stupid moments like these, I willingly do it because my heart can’t help but swell up and beat all fast like I need to be even more worked up than I already am. Swells up with knowing that he needs me exactly as much as I need him. And maybe that’s when my brain gets filled with all of that gross, lovey-dovey, heart eye shit because of how much the dummy in my lap makes me feel so lovely. He makes me feel so _lovely_.

But like, he still definitely still gets on my nerves. Yeah, totally.

Like when he picks me up from behind after sneaking up on me when I’m walking. Which I totally don’t secretly like and hide it by hitting his arms and scolding his beanstalk ass to put me the hell _down_. Especially when he spins me around to face him from my back pocket and then we’re instantly freckled nose to freckled nose, softly grazing together, and how it makes me wanna wrap my arms up and around his neck -which I always end up doing as if on instinct. And it most definitely doesn’t make me want to press our lips together, run my fingers through his hair to bring him closer. And I certainly don’t look into his chocolate eyes, wondrous and bright and a bit wicked...all starry and dream-like. Stupid. Yeah, so, so stupid that I end up kissing him because he makes me feel disgustingly ooey-gooey and drunk with affection.

_“Cute cute cute,”_ he’ll whisper against my lips, calloused fingers brushing my cheek before lightly pinching where I know I’m bright as a goddamn tomato without wanting to be. I put on a facade a lot of times of being repulsed when he does that. “No I’m not, asshole. You know I hate that,” I’ll say.

But he doesn’t need to know that what I _really_ mean is “No I’m not, asshole. But say it again please and maybe one more time after,” as he begins to kiss me deeply, making me forget that we’re in the middle of campus and that I’m officially late for class.

Or when we go to parties and he drags me to the kitchen, fingers tightly around my wrist so he can make me the drink he knows I like. “A gin and tonic for the cutie in the stupid bucket hat,” he’ll say as he hands me my cup. And as much as I want to snap back for him to leave my damn bucket hat _out of this_ , I can’t help but smile behind the rim of my red solo cup. Because even after all of this time, it still surprises me how much he knows me, even if it’s for the little things like knowing my preference of drinks. So I’ll just scowl and hip check him because what I really want to say is _“Fuck you, Richie, for knowing me so well and being cute while doing it.”_

But you know what’s fucking weird? Call me coo coo for Cocoa Puffs, but I swear he’s goddamn _psychic_. I don’t know how he does it, but it kind of freaks me out how he can read my mind so easily.

Like, I could be in my dorm doing homework and I’m admittedly missing him even though I just saw him 2 hours ago (call me clingy, I don’t care, he’s cuddly). And then all of a sudden I get a text from him saying that he’s stopping by for smooches before heading to class.

Or, one time when we were walking around campus and I was thinking that I was hungry. And here comes my boyfriend, his weighted tree branch of an arm slung safely around my neck, charcoal curls falling into his sun bright brown eyes, asking “Hey, do you wanna get some ice cream?”

I only look up at him incredulously because, goddamnit, he did it again! I spun out from under his arm -almost gracefully if I hadn’t bumped into a girl who was walking the opposite way- and nearly shouted “Stop that!” He had only really looked confused when he asked what the hell I was on about...again. “Stop reading my mind, Richie! How do you do that? Are you fucking psychic or something?!”

I was laughing at this point because even I knew I sounded ridiculous. And the way he was starting to laugh, too, really wasn’t helping anything. Sometimes I wonder how he deals with me. 

“What the fu- babe, no I’m not psychic. I just really want some ice cream. Plus,” he says as he sauntered over to me. “I’m craving sprinkles and you’ll yell at me if I eat them out of the container again.” He pulled me closer to him by the belt loops of my jeans and I went without resisting because I honestly love when he does that. It makes me feel like I’m in some cheesy teenage 80s movie and I get all giddy. Except this time I tried to keep up the scowl I was giving him, but he was making it hard.

Stupid, cute freckles, what the fuck?

“He’s right, I would yell at him,” I mumbled to myself since I had obviously taken up the role of a goddamn _looney_.

“Besides, it’s not my fault that I know you so well and that I can read your pretty little mind,” he kisses my forehead as if to prove his point. “Can we get sprinkles now? I’d like to taste the rainbow,” He pouts, sticking out his bottom lip, puffing out his spotted cheeks slightly, and his eyes somehow becoming even more dreamy. How the fuck does he do that?

I rolled my eyes before intertwining our fingers and starting to walk again. “That’s for Skittles, dumbass.”

“I really don’t think it matters, Eds,” he hums back, earning a thump in the shoulder from me.

But he’s right though. It’s not his fault he knows me so well, just like It’s not my fault I know _him_ so well. I mean, we’ve known each other since scraped knees and when overalls were only supposed to be meant for kids and not a hipster trend. So of course I know all of his little ticks why he’s so weird and spazzy. The mannerisms that are oddly adorable to me in a cute dopey way. Like when he runs a hand through his hair, long bony fingers meeting midnight unruly curls, means he’s nervous and working up the nerve to say something.

He did that like 5 times when he said he was in love with me the first time.

Before he could really get the words out, I could barely keep mine in, stumbling out a weak “I’m in love with you.”

I hadn’t meant to let my words slip. My brain was on mute and my heart went mush and all of a sudden they were out there. Richie choked on a sob before surging in to sear me with the press of his soft lips, cradling my face and making my brain go static. I could feel the pulse in his wrist thrumming rapidly against my jaw and his calloused thumbs lightly stroked my cheekbones. He made me buzz with...well, I didn’t really know, but it made me thread my fingers through Richie’s frizzy hair. I had pulled back to kiss all over his face, to kiss every chocolate freckle and salty tear, the crinkle of his eyes, his sharp cheekbones and back to his blush lips.

He pressed our foreheads together and said in one breath “I’m in love with you too, Eds.” I couldn’t care to correct him because I was too busy smiling and crying myself like a maniac.

But, what were these feelings and why were they for this fucking loser? The rest of that night was a mix of laughter, tears, and a bunch of ooey-gooey gross love confessions...andmaybesomemakingoutbutyoudontneedtoknowaboutthat ANYWAYS!

But it’s like, maybe in some weird, totally irrational but also very logical way, I _do_ know why I’m grossly head over heels for Richie, my boyfriend, the hawaiian printed block in my artery. And all I can think -when I see him take off running through the flock of pigeons that were minding their own goddamn business, or when he fucking barks in public out of nowhere- is _well slap my ass and call me Suzzy, I’m in love and stuck with this idiot and I don’t think I mind spending the rest of my life with him._ So I bark too, because I’m a good boyfriend and I can’t let him look like a looney all by himself.

I proudly claim Richie fucking Tozier, because nothing and absolutely no one can replace how he makes me feel so completely in love.

I love him and everything about him.

I love when he blows raspberries on my cheeks instead of kissing them as a way of saying hello. I push him away, spitting out some stupid fact about saliva -get it, _spit?_ \- when what I really want to say is Yay, you’re here! He laughs though because he’s used to the crazy shit that comes out of my mouth. So I tug Richie back to me and hug him, leaning up to press my own version of a wet raspberry to the underside of his jaw. He laughs and it sounds like a beautiful song that I know all of the words to.

_“Richie get the fuck off of me! You’re so gross...wait no come back, I was just kidding.”_

I love when he shamelessly breaks out singing and dancing when he hears a song he knows in the middle of the snack aisle of Target, bag of Goldfish dropped and forgotten. Long flailing limbs and flopping black curls as he brings my body to his, spinning me dizzy but not daring to let me fall. And I can’t help but laugh and sing along with him, or stop the embarrassing squeak that comes out of me when he tries to dip me. I swear I’m not a girl.

“Richie, people are watching,” I mumble into his shoulder, attempting but failing to contain the giggles bubbling out of my chest. We’re still swaying and he’s still holding me safely in his arms.

He brushes a loose curl from my eye but still has us sway before saying in a sing-song voice, “Edward Spaghedward, we will probably never see these people again.” He playfully bumps our noses together like we’re dogs before saying lightly through a sweet smile, “Live a little, Eds. I’ve got you.” I love how he teaches me to live in the moment of things.

When he says those words, I’ve got you, it never fails to make me feel like I’m safe in the secure bubble we’ve made for each other. I love how he makes me feel safe.

I love how sometimes he’ll look at me as if I hung the stars in the sky, created the whole fucking solar system, and painted the galaxy when all I did was bring him lunch from his favorite burger bar. He’ll get this look on his face where his nose scrunches up and the corners of his dreamy eyes crease up as he smiles. “Thanks, Eds. I owe you my heart. I don’t need it anyway,” he’ll say before taking a bite so big it probably can’t be healthy.

“Richie, you need your heart-- nevermind.” I’ve kind of learned to not comment on some of the things that comes out of his mouth or to just go along with it. Because I mean, it’s Richie and he’s adorable and he’s been saying shit like this since we were goddamn eight years old. So I just do what I usually do, which is kiss his temple and call him a dumbass. But you know what? He’s cute when he’s a dumbass and he’s _my_ dumbass and that might just be enough.

I’ve started stealing his hawaiian shirts. There, I said it.

And he’s been giving me shit about it because of the _years_ and _years_ that I’ve made fun of them. Because in reality, he dresses like a tropical, grunge, e-boy clown and at this point I think he does this shit on purpose to get a rise out of me. But I admittedly can’t help being drawn to -the less hideous ones- them, and maybe it’s because they remind me of Richie. Because they undoubtedly smell just like him -cinnamon and a faded scent of cigarettes since he quit smoking a year prior-, and I love how they’re just a little bit bigger than me. How they still threaten to slide off my shoulder just like any other piece of clothing I borrow -okay, steal because it’s not like he’s going to get them back- from him.

So maybe I accidentally on purpose throw one on as I’m leaving in a rush to get to class after spending the night in his dorm.

Sometimes though, he’ll just smile and laugh when he sees me wearing them. He’d maybe pick me up from class and his face will split into a grin before taking my hand saying, “Nice shirt. Where’d you get it?”

“The dumpster,” I say sweetly before kissing him quickly with a smile.

Loving Richie is something I can’t really get tired of. I’ve known him my whole life and I despite him being a walking disaster, he’s my safe place. He’s my home just like I’m his. I love how he’s not afraid to be different than everyone else. If he were like everyone else he’d be boring as fuck. Who would make jokes about fucking my mom? Not him, that’s who. I love how it’s always an adventure with him, never dull. I love our 3AM drives in the bed of his red pickup truck, going down to the nearest gas station to get slurpees and snacks. He always thinks he has to convince me with his puppy dog eyes when really I was going to say yes in the first place.

I love how he always catches me when I’m falling, as cheesy as it sounds. Like when my mom calls and she’s trying to convince me to come back home, even though I’ve made it very clear that I’m never going back. Or when I’m stressed for a test and I’m freaking out over an equation I know I should know the answer to. All he has to say is _“It’s okay, Eds. I’ve got you,”_ and be in the room with me. Richie Tozier is good for a lot of things, he’s just good in general. You rarely ever find anyone like him and I think that I’m pretty lucky. Sorry boys, he’s taken.

There’s a line from one of Richie’s and I’s favorite movies, “Forrest Gump” that we like to quote probably too much, now that I think about it.

“Why are you so good to me,” Jenny had asked Forrest before leaving.  
  
And because Forrest is the sweetest human being in the whole wide world, he simply responds like it’s the most obvious thing, and only because it is, “Cause you’re my girl.”

“Cause you’re my boy,” I’ll whisper to Richie as Jenny says her line. In all honesty, it’s gross, boyfriends, lovey dovey shit that I really can’t get enough of. Because when I look at him, brown eyes full of adventure, sweet freckles scattered across his face and his smudgy, dirty glasses falling down the bridge of his nose -which I continuously have to clean since he damn well won't, all I can think about is how I’m lucky. I love my dumbass boyfriend and I wouldn’t trade or change him for anything. I think the solar system might come crashing down and cows will be able to talk if that ever happens.

He’s my boy, and I know for a fact that will never ever change.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Come follow and chat with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/flowerpotz01) ,thanks :)


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